Jackson

When I woke up the morning after our dog, Jackson, died I did many of the normal things I usually do. I peeled myself out of bed after I was woken by the noise of my children. I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I made breakfast for my kids as usual, and kept noticing how empty our living room felt. No sweet doggie face greeting me, waiting for his own breakfast and morning walk. My whole body felt tired and my head was throbbing after crying so much the day prior. When my kids finished their breakfast they left scraps of food, like peanut butter toast and eggs, and suddenly I couldn’t hold back the tears. Here I was scraping food into the garbage can and crying at 8am. It was so small, so seemingly insignificant, but it was food I would have given to Jackson. He would have loved it, but he wasn’t there anymore, he was dead.

It’s impossible to think about all the little things, all the time, when someone is living. But after someone dies, it feels like every single little and big thing is highlighted over and over again. The absence feels enormous.

Almost 13 years we had gotten into the routine and way of life that accompanies having a dog. Before children, I once told my mother in law that it’s hard to imagine ever loving someone as much as I do my dog. I was obsessed with him and wanted to take him everywhere. I remember having kids and suddenly this loving, anxiety ridden, sweet pup of mine who had been a loyal companion through all of life’s ups and downs, and cross country moves, had felt like an extra thing I had to take care of in the midst of overwhelm. A few months ago when we knew something was wrong with him, I felt a wave of guilt hit me straight in the gut. I was running out of time.

We were running out of time.

I had grand dreams of him being in the beginning of our next chapter, when we would eventually move (again), into a forever home. I took comfort in knowing that he’d be in those future memories. I counted on it. I thought maybe we’d get another dog, because I felt there’s no way I’d want another dog if Jackson dies before that. I thought we’d get another beach vacation in this summer because our last one was so fun with him being free in the water with the kids.

And one visit to the veterinarian’s office sent all those dreams spiraling, unraveling, and then vanishing completely.

I sat uncomfortable in that guilt and sadness I felt I had just gotten punched with. The waves of sadness were uncontrollable. I felt unhinged. The anxiety made my nervous system cycle through overdrive and depletion. Life had just been getting SO good again and I had started to have so much more space for him again. I felt so exhausted by the anxiety of anticipating his death, the witnessing of suffering, and the decision fatigue. Everyone tells you that you’ll know when it’s the right time, but what they don’t say is that it’s probably going to feel super ambiguous for possibly a long time!

But I had been here before.

The grief. The anxiety. The suffering. The waiting. The unrelenting ache of it all. And I knew better. I knew the only way was through it all. I braced myself for the intense waves. I braced myself for getting caught up in the undertow. I knew if I struggled against it all, I would only suffer longer, that grief would trap me in the whirlwind of it all. I knew if I allowed myself to feel it all, that eventually calm would come.

I was able to work through my guilt by leaning on friends for support and conversations, particularly ones who knew Jackson for quite some time and the wonderful life we had together. I was able to share how I was feeling and the thoughts pacing through my head. I was gently reminded of something I remind my own clients about frequently. Context. Context matters. I was able to zoom out and see our ENTIRE life together, not just the sleep deprived years after children when I barely had time for anyone, myself included. I felt so sad, and also so overwhelmed with comfort when I recalled how we had the best life together. My one friend reminded me, in the midst of my guilt, that I gave him a family, so even when I felt like I wasn’t giving enough, I had actually given him even more than I realized.

In the past year or so I had been able to dedicate more attention to that sweet old pup of ours, and in his final 2 months, when we knew our time was limited, he was completely enveloped in the love and attention that he so deserved, the kind of love he received his whole life. It turns out, it really was a good life, it was a great life.

Jackson made life better. He made you feel like all would always be okay. That’s what a dog does, ya know? They just love you, unconditionally. It’s hard to forget the bad stuff at the end, him struggling to walk and making the call to schedule in-home euthanasia with Lap of Love, and watching him take his last breath. Sure, it’s part of his story; it’s part of our story now. But context, context matters and zooming out to see his whole, big life? Wow. That matters most of all. It was a beautiful life together, and he truly was the best gift that I received that almost 13 years ago.

And as for the next chapter I had dreamed about that came unraveling? We had plans to spread his ashes in a field we frequently played & had picnics in together as a family. But, as I held his ashes in this beautiful wood carved box, I started to think maybe we just hold on to them a little bit longer. I thought, maybe one day when we’re ready to dig roots into our next home, that we can spread him in our future yard with the trees and flowers, and all the places the kids will run and play. So, even though it surely won’t be the same, it turns out he will make it to the next chapter after all. And with the sadness, there is also great peace.